


Not Much of a Girlfriend

by iridescentglow



Category: Lost
Genre: Alternate History, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-11
Updated: 2005-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:56:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentglow/pseuds/iridescentglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate history. Boone finds a different diversion on the night before his plane leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Much of a Girlfriend

"She your girlfriend? . . . your _wife_?" He considered for a moment, rocking back on his heels and baring his teeth into a knowing smile. "No. She ain't your wife. You look too happy. Married folks, it all gets to be kinda strained." He stopped short of a laugh, and Boone noticed a slight hollowness to his cheerfully mocking expression.

Boone watched as the other man slipped the picture of he and Shannon back inside his wallet. He didn't return the wallet to Boone, simply placed it on the nightstand. Boone almost expected him to pull a $100 bill out of the side and pocket it as payment for services rendered. Come to think of it, Boone didn't remember _giving_ his wallet to this man . . .

He suddenly imagined the feather-light brush of fingers slipping inside of his breast pocket and removing the wallet as they kissed. _Shit._

"Shouldn't you be, you know, _going_?" Boone said, masking his exasperation with what he hoped was cool assertiveness. "Isn't that . . ." he trailed off, and then finished the sentence in his head: _Isn't that the point of guys you meet in bars, isn't that the point of one night stands -- that they leave? They fucking leave. They fuck you and then they **leave**._

"Isn't that the point of cheap whores?" the man prompted, amusement filling in his brief tint of melancholy. "But I ain't your whore. You don't get to tell me when to leave." His eyes glinted.

Boone swallowed hard. He didn't even know the man's name.

 _"Call me Sawyer,"_ he had hissed as his lips covered Boone's. _"Remember it. You're gonna want to say it later."_ There were no delays, no pretence; just the insistent push of foreign tongue. Moments later they were on the bed and Boone's fingers were clawing across his back. 

Boone wasn't stupid. Nobody said "Call me Sawyer" if their name was actually Sawyer. Of course, sane/upstanding members of society wouldn't generally select the bruised, beaten guy in the corner to strike up a conversation with in a bar. That kind of behaviour was reserved for Southern nutjobs who liked to leave bruises of their own.

"She's not my girlfriend," Boone said flatly, giving up most of his hope that 'Sawyer' might be leaving soon.

"Your _ex_!" Sawyer said triumphantly. "Fags always get hung up on their ex-girlfriends!"

"No. She's my sister."

Sawyer narrowed his eyes, studying Boone carefully. "Either you're lying to me. Or you're one sick son of a bitch."

Boone opened his mouth to reply, but Sawyer cut him off with a shake of his head. He moved closer, cupping his hand around Boone's neck. Sawyer's lips were close to Boone's ear; he felt the wet tickle of the tip of Sawyer's tongue teasing against the earlobe.

"I didn't say I wanted to know which it was," the man who wasn't Sawyer muttered in Boone's ear.


End file.
